


Fin'amor

by acaseofthemondays



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: A Dragon - Freeform, Courtly Love, F/M, LOTSA PINING, ShieldShock - Freeform, Skinny!Steve, a gift for a very good girl, background Thor/Jane, middle ages AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-01
Updated: 2019-07-31
Packaged: 2020-07-28 07:55:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20060614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acaseofthemondays/pseuds/acaseofthemondays
Summary: What is this story, you ask? It is my take on a medieval courtly love tale featuring Darcy and Steve. Is it anachronistic in some places? Probably. I did very little research on Medieval England and Scandinavia. Is it full of pining from both parties? You betcha. Does it feature Skinny Steve? Yes bitch it does. Does someone turn into a dragon a la an Arthurian legend? YES THEY SURE DO. But you gotta read to find out who....I made this for anais-ninja-bitch over on tumblr because she is a good good girl who deserves nice things. She's utterly delightful so go follow her if you want goodass content on your dash.





	Fin'amor

**Author's Note:**

> Hugs and kisses to my beta, LadyA

The journey to the kingdom of Asgard had been a strenuous one. Traversing oceans and lands completely foreign was not for the faint hearted, so it was fortuitous that lady’s maid Darceline Lewis, Darcy to her companions, was hardy in both constitution and spirits. Leaning forward in her seat in the carriage, she flicked the heavy brocade curtains aside to catch a glimpse of the passing countryside. 

“I’ll give you this, dearest Jane, for a heathen, your betrothed’s kingdom is quite lovely.” 

Lady Jane Foster scratched the end of her nose, smearing a small blot of ink at the tip. “Hmm, yes, lovely,” she muttered vaguely as she continued penning into her ever present journal. “Darcy, would you mind checking over these numbers for me?” She proffered the small logbook with an expectant expression on her delicate features. Darcy raised a dark brow, but took the book without comment. As nimble and skilled as her fingers were with needlework, so too was her mind with figures. 

It was this particular ability that had won her freedom from her drunkard father’s home when she was a child. Her father had taken her with him to Earl Foster’s manor one tax day and had unintentionally caught the eye of the Earl when she’d corrected a small error in the calculation of their dues. Impressed, recently widowed, and entirely overwhelmed with the burgeoning genius of his own young daughter, the Earl had immediately offered to take Darcy on to the household staff as playmate and future lady’s maid to young Jane Foster. Her father had taken one look at the sack of coin Earl Foster had offered and never looked back. Neither had Darcy, who was pleased to find herself with a friend who was as intelligent and curious as she. Having a full belly and a warm bed every night was rather nice as well. 

Her eyes slid over the page, absorbing the string of complex formulas with ease. She may not understand the reason for all the calculations, star nonsense that only Jane seemed to comprehend, but she could sort the formulas out beautifully, if she said so herself. She handed the book back as it was and Jane grinned rather smugly. Though highly intelligent herself, Jane often wrote too quickly and ended up making a mess of errors. Or perhaps it was better to say, she wrote too slowly for how quickly her mind worked and thus what she wrote down often left holes in her formulas that Darcy would have to correct. In either case, Jane could be impossibly impatient, a factor that made  _ her  _ needlework completely intolerable to anyone with sight. Thankfully, she had Darcy to help her sort out the knots in her life. 

It was one such tangled knot that had led to Jane’s betrothal to the Crown Prince of Asgard, the kingdom across the Nordic Sea. Several months prior, the two women had stumbled upon Prince Thor as they rode their mares across the beach. It had been a fine evening for stargazing, the moon absent from the sky so that the stars shone all the brighter over the endless sea. It had taken them completely by surprise when a sudden summer squall had arisen, as if by magic, sending the ocean into chaos and blotting out any light. It was this lack of light that led Jane to slightly trample Thor. Being rather disoriented from his ship going down in the storm and then washed ashore only to be run over by a horse, it was understandable that he reacted fairly poorly, frightening the two women significantly. Darcy, ever efficient, pulled the falchion she always kept on her person and bludgeoned the back of his head with the flat of her blade. He’d fallen quite tidily, like a very large, very handsome sack of potatoes. Of course, there was the small matter of him developing a mild case of amnesia for several months. Darcy swore that the shipwreck was just as likely to have caused the memory loss as the blow to the back of the head and rejected all culpability. She did, however, take complete credit for inadvertently finding Jane a suitable husband, both in position and compatibility. It was as he was nursed back to health in the Fosters’ castle, that a profound love grew between the two. When Thor regained his memory, it was a happy realization indeed that he was both a prince of a wealthy, if dreadfully foreign, realm and in need of a bride. 

He had returned to his home some months ago to clear up some distressing business with his father and brother and had sent for Jane shortly thereafter, thus bringing them to the carriage that carried them now. 

“You know, I’ve heard tales of this land being full of magic. Dwarves and giants and even dragons,” Darcy said in a hushed, reverent voice. A shiver of delicious anticipation ran up her spine. 

Jane rolled her eyes and made a very unladylike snort. “You mustn't listen to the Bards. Or Thor. It’s all a bunch of stories to entertain children. Magic doesn’t exist. It’s scientifically impossible.” 

“Says the woman who believes that the miracles of Our Lord Christ Jesus are a load of horse dung.” Darcy made the sign of the cross over herself. No sense in upsetting the Lord even if her lady was a heretic. 

“Tell me  _ how _ exactly a bit of mud and spittle is supposed to bring back a man’s sight, Darcy.” 

Darcy sighed but did not answer. It was an argument that they’d had many times over the years of their friendship. Jane, for all her brilliance, had a difficult time believing in things that she could not see for herself or reproduce in her alchemical laboratory. Darcy, whose grandmother had been a renowned seer in their village, was more open to the impossibilities of the world. If her grandmother could predict to the hour the births and deaths of every person in their village, then she didn’t see why Jesus wouldn’t be able to heal the blind with a touch or for dragons to roam the earth. 

***

Darcy did not remember her own mother very well. She had died in childbirth with a stillborn son shortly after Darcy turned four. The only maternal presence she remembered was her grandmother, who was rather distant, perhaps by nature of her ability. If Darcy had her choice, she would have wanted a mother exactly like Frigga, the radiantly beautiful Queen of Asgard and Thor’s mother. She was as warm and gentle as a summer shower, and just as refreshing. 

Odin, the Allfather, as they called their king in this realm, was Frigga’s complete opposite. Cold and hard, a bitter wind that cuts through clothes and freezes innards. He watched them all with a single stern, reproachful eye, as the other was covered with an eyepatch, lost in some long ago battle. Darcy was thankful when Frigga ushered them swiftly away from the throne room after their formal introductions to the court of Odin. 

The two women now rested, somewhat uneasily, far beneath the castle in what Frigga had called a hot spring. Indeed, great swells of heated water roiled in pools naturally hewn into the rock beneath their new home. It was blissful to have their bodies completely submerged, the heat working the soreness from their travel-abused bodies. However, it was rather strange to be seated completely naked in a cavernous space where anybody could walk in on them, though Frigga had assured them that  _ this _ particular cavern was exclusive to the royal family. She did not specify if it were only for the  _ female _ members of the family, so Jane and Darcy were rather horrified of the thought that Odin might join them at some point. Their only saving grace would likely be the fact that the cavern was nearly completely dark, only lit by dimly glowing sconces along the rock walls. 

They bathed in the waters until their hands and feet were quite pruny and Darcy’s already curly hair had become a riotous mess from the steam sifting up through the strands. Jane, who was uncomfortable with nudity in general, left before Darcy, patting her on the shoulder with a warning not to drown. Darcy murmured something not quite coherent, already half asleep with her head resting against the lip of the pool. She dozed heavily for a good long while but woke with a start when she heard a voice clear. She blinked her eyes, wondering at the haze until she remembered where she was and that the milky blurring of her sight was not blindness but merely great billows of steam. The steam whirled and shifted enough for her to finally see who had joined her in the pool. 

Her first thought was that it was a young boy who had joined her, but the deep voice that carried to her across the suddenly entirely too small pool was certainly that of a  _ man.  _

“I’m sorry Lady Darcy, I didn’t mean to startle you. I did not see you there. Well, I saw you, but it was only as I was half in the water and I thought it might be uncomfortable if you woke while I was...uncovered. So I sat down. So that I wouldn’t be, well…” he cleared his throat again, flushing from both the heat of the water and the predicament he’d placed them in. 

He was unusually small for a man, his body fragile and narrow, which excused her initial assumption that he was a child. He had the face of a grown man, however, and not the youth whose voice has only recently deepened and will likely grow taller and heavier in the coming months. He was pale, with the purest pair of blue eyes she’d ever seen. His hair was a soft gold, like spun sunshine and it hung limply against his forehead where he was nervously pushing it aside. A strong, well-shaped nose, high cheekbones, and a mouth that was almost too full and dark for such a narrow, pale face finished out his facial features. He was beautiful, exquisitely so, despite his delicate build. She stared at him and only found her voice when she saw him flush deeper and continue to spout apologies at her. 

“I’m not a lady,” she declared. “Merely Lady Jane’s lady-in-waiting.” 

“Oh.” He seemed unable to respond to that. 

Darcy blinked at him, still a bit addled by sleep, then prompted him. “And you are…?”

He seemed to flounder, as if he’d forgotten. “Yes. Right. I’m Jarl Steven Rogerson.” 

“Yarl? What an odd name.”

“It’s not my name, it’s my title. I suppose the equivalent to your kingdom would be Sir.” 

“Oh,” Darcy extended the word with realization. “So you’re a knight?” 

Steven flashed a brief, shy smile, though there was a sadness to his eyes that confused her. “Something like that,” he replied. He sunk deeper into the water, letting it rise to his ears, hiding himself. 

Ah, she realized, his size must cause him grief, especially if he is supposed to be a warrior. She could see it in his posture, the careful way he held himself, waiting for the cruel line of questioning.  _ How can you be a knight if you are so small? Surely you are too weak to fight? A stiff wind could knock you down, how could you possibly stand a chance against a true Norse warrior?  _ A tenderness unfurled softly in her breast for the man, but was halted by the realization that they were both naked and in a bath together and by no choice of her own. 

“I thought this bathing chamber was only for the royal family?” she asked, somewhat sourly. 

Steven hemmed and hawed a bit at that. “I am Prince Thor’s brother-in-arms and one of his close friends and was given permission to use the chamber so that...well, the public chamber can be…” here he flushed rather brilliantly, shame clear on his face, “too public, I suppose.” He shrugged, a sad little arching of his boney shoulders. “And I have trouble breathing. Sometimes. The air down here helps.” 

“Be that as it may, you have quite efficiently trapped me in this pool until you see fit to leave.” 

“You may go at any time. I will not stop you.” 

“And let you ogle me in my nakedness? I think not, Sir,” she replied, indignant, crossing her arms tightly over her ample chest, though it was well below the churning water and already obscured. 

Steven sputtered so hard he went into a brief coughing fit. “No, no, you misunderstand me, miss! I would  _ never _ look at you! Not that there’s anything  _ wrong _ with you,” he continued frantically at her look of affront. “I mean to say, I would love to look at you because you are,“ he gestured at her face, his own nearly glowing in the dim light.

“I’m what, exactly?” she arched a brow. 

“Well, you know, a gorgeous girl. Woman! But I wouldn’t. Look at you, that is. I’d close my eyes,” which he did immediately, though out of chagrin more than any deference to her modesty. “To be respectful,” he finished rather dejectedly with a blind flap of his hand in her general direction. 

“I see.” 

Steven sighed and opened his eyes again, the blue ringed by thick, dark lashes. “I’m sorry,” he said earnestly. She wasn’t sure if he was apologizing for the predicament he’d put her in, the stumbling of his speech, or himself as a whole or some dismal combination of the three. The tenderness started blossoming again. 

She narrowed her eyes at him and then softened the expression, letting a conspiratorial smile slide across her mouth. “Forgiven. But just this once. Now, if you would please turn around and close your eyes, I would greatly appreciate it.”

He nodded emphatically, turning swiftly in his seat. She could see every knob of his spine, each curve of his ribs. Was the man not being fed? What kind of friend was Thor if he couldn’t keep his friends well fed? She pursed her lips. She’d need to talk to Jane about this. She slipped from the pool on legs gone loose and wobbly from abuse and hot water, gingerly making her way to where she’d stored her clothes on a shelf of rock. She dressed quickly, the fabric clinging to her wet, heated skin, and cleared her throat when she was decent. True to his word, Steven had kept his back to her. “I am clothed now, Jarl Steven.” 

He turned slowly, his eyes drinking her in, in a way that should have been distressing but sent a shiver of heat over her scalp. “I apologize again for disturbing your rest.” 

Darcy nodded and gave a slight curtsy, suddenly tongue-tied, then turned abruptly and left.

***

The wedding was lovely, if a bit different than what Jane and Darcy were used to. For one, it was not a Christian ceremony at all, but done in the pagan style that was customary for Asgard. Jane, who was no great believer to begin with, found the ceremony to be fascinating and infinitely more efficient with a lot less stuffy, time consuming fuss. There was more emphasis on the feast after the wedding than the ceremony itself, which was a rowdy, joyful event that the entirety of Asgard seemed to have attended. During the feast, Thor had taken it upon himself to try and matchmake, introducing Darcy to his closest eligible friends in the hopes that one of his noblemen would be to her liking. She protested the introductions, feeling hopelessly inadequate as a marital prospect to men of nobility. She was a lady’s maid. To the ruling class of men she could only ever be a dalliance, perhaps even a mistress, but never a wife. And she had no desire to be mistress  _ or _ dalliance. To any man. Thor had brushed her delicately stated concerns aside with a wave of his meaty paw, mumbling something about  _ jarls  _ and  _ karls  _ not being so insular with their courting, whatever that meant. 

She found his friends Hogun and Fandral to be polar opposites in demeanor, the first abysmally solemn and the second a born rake, if she was any judge, and so neither were particularly alluring to her. She did find Fandral to be a skilled and enthusiastic dancer...along with every other maid in Asgard. A few other men were presented to her, but all were the stalwart, warrior type and were entirely too dull. If she were to rap her knuckes against their skulls, it wouldn’t have surprised her in the slightest if she’d been met with a hollow clang. 

She was nearing the end of her patience when Thor introduced her to a final trio of companions. The first, James Barnesson, was notably missing his left arm, but it was clear by his muscle-bound body that he was still a capable warrior. He also happened to be a divine dancer, unerringly graceful, and had a dry, quiet humor to him. Dark headed, and blue eyed, he was incredibly handsome, but there was a wariness around his eyes that told Darcy he was a man who would not give his heart so easily, if at all. The second, Sam Wilson, was equally handsome, with the dark skin and eyes of the peoples of the distant southern continent. Wickedly funny and a kindred spirit, Darcy felt an immediate affinity for the man, though it edged loser to kinship than romance. The third man, she’d already met. 

“Good evening, Jarl Steven, it is good to see you again. And this time with the benefit of us both fully clothed.” She smiled impishly at him, inordinately pleased when he blushed from scalp to collar. He was looking especially handsome dressed in a tunic in brilliant shades of crimson and white, with dark blue knotwork embroidered at the collar and hems. He cleared his throat at the askance looks he received from Thor, James, and Sam, but Thor was the first to find his voice. 

“You sly dog, Steven,” he rumbled, clapping him on the shoulder so hard that he swayed under the weight. “Plundering the goods of my wife’s homeland already, are you?”

At the truly furious look that was dawning over Darcy’s face, Steven quickly shoved off Thor’s hand at his shoulder, shaking his head emphatically. “No! Nothing like that! It was an accident.” 

Sam and James exchanged a droll look and then James bent to make a low comment in Steven’s ear that sounded suspiciously like  _ what, did you trip?  _ Steven threw a sharp elbow at the other man’s middle--though it did about as much damage as throwing a pebble at a tree trunk--and then promptly began sputtering and choking on his words in his haste to get them out. 

Darcy, indignant to the point of blushing rather atrociously herself, had had enough and made a brief, ill-tempered account of her first meeting with Steven. Sam and James had merely shrugged at the explanation, and Thor seemed disappointed, if only for a brief moment, until his genial nature returned. 

“Ah well, perhaps later,” was his wholly inappropriate response. “My brothers, I fear I have left my wife for far too long and must return to her,” he continued, speaking  _ my wife _ with a joyful reverence that Darcy found endearing, despite his heathen-like behavior. “I leave Darcy in your  _ very _ good hands.” 

She found the wink he shot at the trio of friends to be significantly less endearing. 

She spent the rest of the festivities dancing with either Sam or James and carefully avoiding Fandral, who she most certainly saw groping the backside of a young woman, out in the middle of the great hall for all of Asgard to see. Actually, many of the revelers were quite deep in their cups at that point and there was a pandemic of groping by both male and female attendees that had Darcy thanking her blessed stars that her choices in dance partners appeared to be the only respectful, and sober, men left in the hall. Her feet were aching when she finally begged pardon from James and Sam and took a seat back at the high table. She located Steven easily enough, and finding him alone, decided to join him. He sat up straighter at her arrival, looking a bit as if he’d swallowed his tongue. 

“I am so sorry for earlier,” he spouted as she took her seat. 

She smiled gently at him, briefly laying her hand on his forearm with the lightest of touches. He stilled beneath her and her own heart reacted to the touch with a startling lurch. She quickly moved her hand away. “It’s alright. It was foolish of me to bring up the nakedness in the first place. I often speak before I have given enough thought to my words.” 

This caused Steven to smile quite brilliantly, his whole face lighting up in such a way that he looked like an illuminated painting of one of the saints. One of the handsomer ones that had not been brutally martyred, perhaps. Darcy took a steadying breath, willing the blood in her veins to cease its singing, her chest rising sharply to press precariously against the neckline of her cambric surcoat. Steven’s eyes dipped down for the briefest flicker and his smile wavered as another blush rode over his cheeks. “Gentle lady, I, too, struggle with speaking too quickly.” His smile twisted slightly. “As you have witnessed in our short acquaintance.” 

“Indeed,” she murmured, and then, “Your friends are both splendid dancers. Did you not desire to dance with me tonight?”

He sunk into his seat, shoulder rising. “It is not lack of desire, but merely lack of ability,” he grit out. “I don’t know how to dance.”

“Ah, I see. And why not? Do you not wish to learn?”

“Perhaps. Someday. Were I to find the right partner.” There was something wistful and far away to his gaze. 

_ “Oh _ I understand it now. You are dreadfully captious when it comes to finding a partner, then?” she teased, leaning close to him. 

He squirmed in his seat, rather like a small child who had been caught telling lies. “No, not particularly. It is usually the other way around. The women of our land tend to be singular in their tastes,” he said, nodding over to where a milk-pale young woman with honey-gold hair was stroking tenderly the bulging pectoral of one of the thick-headed warriors Darcy had met earlier. 

Darcy made an unhappy hum and dropped her eyes to her lap, not wanting Steven to see the pity that might be reflected there. Finally, she looked up to find him staring at her, studying her. She chewed at her lower lip. “The world is wide, Jarl Steven,” she said solemnly. “And it is full of wonders. You may find your partner yet.” 

***

Steven watched Darcy slip out of the Great Hall, her dark curls reflecting the wavering torchlight in whorls of earth and amber. He sighed, undeserved relief flooding him at her solitary exit. He had no right to be jealous of whoever she might choose to take to her bedchamber. He hardly knew the woman, but he was relieved all the same that she left alone. She was everything he could wish for in a woman: beautiful, clearly, but also kind and loyal, witty, brilliant...perfect. They’d spent several hours conversing as the wedding festivities continued on until the wee hours of the morning. It was stilted at first, for him anyway, as he was not used to or necessarily very good at talking to women, but she had *something* through with the conversation until he’d hit his stride. Then it had been like conversing with his oldest friends. She was so easy to talk to, funny and charismatic, her clear intelligence keeping him enthralled, a genuine smile always gracing her lush mouth.

Steven leaned his head back against the back of his chair with a low groan. That  _ mouth _ and those luminous blue eyes and the endearing little gap between her front teeth. He couldn’t wait to paint her, promised himself he would do so soon, but other instincts had him rising from his chair and leaving the hall. He slunk out into the night, heading towards the forest. A hand extended from a wall of shadows beneath the nearest pine, stopping him. 

“You alright, Stevie?” James asked softly. 

He nodded curtly. “I’m fine. You needn’t worry.” 

“That woman get under your skin?”

Steven shook his head, glaring at James’ shadowed face. “It’s got nothing to do with her. I haven’t shifted in awhile...you know how it makes me antsy. I only need a couple hours. I’ll stick to the coast and be back before dawn.”

James nodded and abruptly dropped his arm, turning back toward the castle. “Try not to terrify any fishermen this time, hellion.” 

“I’ll do my best, stubby. Though, if they’ve seen your ugly face before, there’s little I can do to terrify them further.”

James did not reply other than to gesture crudely and slip further down the path to the palace. Steven didn’t linger either. His skin felt feverish and tight and his lungs twisted painfully in his chest. He staggered deeper into the forest, praying no one caught sight of the smoke beginning to spill over his lips and curl from his nostrils. The beast beneath his skin was impatient.

***

Steven Rogerson had been born with smoke in his lungs. He had also been born two months early and by all rights should have perished. Of course, he did not know these things, not until he was older and his mother, Sarah, had sat him down to tell him a story about a boy. A boy who was cursed. But it was no story, it was truth written onto the very bones of his own weak body. 

Sarah had told him that when she had been heavy with him in her belly, she’d run afoul of a witch, one who had cursed the child in her womb, a curse that could only be broken by the kiss of his true love. She told Steven of the moment of his birth, when he came too soon and she feared he would be dead before the midwife even placed him in her arms. She told him of the moment when his mouth popped open with a tiny, weak wail that shot wisps of smoke across the room. She told him of how the midwife nearly dropped him from shock and from the nigh unbearable heat emanating from his tiny body. She explained that he was cursed, but also blessed, because though he was fragile and his childhood had been filled with fevers and uneasy breathing, he would not always be so breakable. 

She told him that when he became a man, he would also become something else: a dragon. She told him that his frailty would break away, and the beast would reign, and he would finally be strong, if only for a few hours. She warned him that the beast within could not be suppressed, not forever, and if he did not make time to fly across the land in his dragon skin, it would burn him up and the change would happen without his control. She warned him that people would covet him. And fear him. 

And then she died. 

Steven was left orphaned, having never known his father, and burdened with a terrible secret. He lived in fear of himself, of what he became when the itch beneath his skin could no longer be ignored. And he hated the way he was feared by those unfortunate enough to find him in his altered state. Was it not curse enough that he was a pathetic weakling? He had to be twice cursed with fire in his veins? 

Very few knew his secret. James and Sam, of course, and the royal family. James he had known since infancy, had weathered all manner of childhood storms together. And it was James who was with him the first time he changed. He’d waited for fear and disgust to darken his friend’s eyes, but there had only been light in them. James had only ever found his dragon self to be fascinating. He’d called him beautiful once; his huge, scaled body a pure gold with a milky belly, his expansive wings like spun sugar. All Steven could see was the monster from fairy tales. 

It had only been a few years into his ability to make the change when Odin approached him. It was to be expected, he couldn’t keep out of sight entirely despite his best efforts, and it was inevitable that rumors of dragon sightings would make it back to the Allfather. With a Seer for a wife, it did not take much longer after that to track down Steven to assess him as a threat. Thankfully Thor had ridden with Odin, and had taken a liking to Steven almost instantly. It was perhaps Thor’s good graces that saved Steven from execution right then and there. With some convincing, he had eventually agreed to come to the Allfathers court, to be made a Jarl and fight beside the Crown Prince. There was nothing like having a dragon on your side when coming up against a horde of Jotnar. Of course, the majority of Odin’s court did not know that Steven fought as a dragon, and he was still seen as a laughing stock to most of the Asgardians. They all assumed his rise in rank and introduction into the court was because he was a bastard of Odin’s, or a charity case, or worst of all, as a cruel joke. It burned him still to hear the tittering laughter that followed him everywhere. 

No woman wanted him as he was. No woman would want him if they knew the truth. The only end to his curse would be death. 

Sam, already a seasoned warrior in Thor’s inner circle, found out by pure accident. Steven had waited too long to shift during one particularly long span of peacetime and was caught needing to change in the daylight hours. In his haste to disappear as deeply in the forest as he could get, he missed Sam entirely, who was minding his own business, practicing his falconry in a nearby clearing. Watching the massive body of a dragon burst forth from a tiny man was enough to make Sam lose his breakfast and had startled the falcon quite considerably as well, unbeknownst to Steven. Some hours later, when Steven had returned to his human form and was trudging exhaustedly through the halls of the palace, Sam had pulled him aside, discreetly relaying what he’d seen. Steven had blanched, his stomach twisting in knots, only to be met with affable acceptance from Sam. 

“Explains why you’re such a stubborn little shit all the time,” he’d commented with a shrug. “All that fire trapped in a little body has to come out somehow.”

Steven had thrown a punch at Sam, who could have easily dodged but let the blow land, earning himself a decent black eye. He had merely arched a brow at Steven’s reaction, vindicated in his assertion. They’d become fast friends shortly thereafter. 

***

It was a relief when his skin cracked open like dried earth, the shimmering gold of him unfurling rapidly until he filled the entirety of the well used clearing with his body. He huffed slowly through a snout grown long and wide, his massive lungs taking in air like bellows and releasing it with heated gusts that curled the leaves of the nearby trees. He drew his head back, stretching the kinks from his long, serpentine neck, and then flexed his wings to their extent blotting out the bright moon and stars. For all that he hated this part of himself, there was a wild, animal ecstasy that came with being strong and breathing easy. He always felt such guilt, that he could so thoroughly enjoy being a monster. Another reason why he was unworthy of true love. His thoughts turned unbidden to Darcy and the self hatred heightened. As sweetly as she’d smiled at him at the feast, it would not change how horrified she would be to see him like this. Shame burned though and swallowed up the joy. 

With a screaming roar, he launched himself into the sky, rising higher and higher until the land beneath him was merely a blur of shadows. He darted toward the sea, his wings carrying him faster than any horse, and reached the ocean with ample time to feast on sea creatures and breathe swaths of fire across the night sky. He would return easily before dawn, his belly and the beast fully sated. 

***

Darcy halted in her preparation for bed, setting her delicate, silk nightgown back into her trunk. She’d thought she’d heard something strange in the distance. The roar of some unfamiliar beast. She took to the window, peering out into the night but seeing nothing. Her eyes glanced at the stars, pausing when she thought she saw something glimmer in the sky a league away. She strained her eyes, then shook her head at her own inanity. Perhaps she should take Jane’s advice and stop listening to Thor’s stories after all. 


End file.
